


To Bathe In Darkness

by Laerthel



Series: Laerthel's Gifts, Collections & Challenges [6]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Almaren, Gen, Illuin, Ormal, Quite before time really, The Valar, Years of the Lamps, mentions of Morgoth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21926416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laerthel/pseuds/Laerthel
Summary: The Lamps are destroyed, and Mairon is grieving. But most importantly, he wants to Understand. Eonwe offers what little comfort he can.(gift piece for the 2019 Tolkien Secret Santa - exchange)
Relationships: Eönwë & Sauron | Mairon
Series: Laerthel's Gifts, Collections & Challenges [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001721
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2019





	To Bathe In Darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chokingonwhys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chokingonwhys/gifts).



The hour is late and the smithy dark; yet the orange petals of smouldering steal are not the only thing that gleam, Mairon realizes. A Light comes to him, clear and pervading, the like of which the smithy had not seen since his Power had carved it into the unforgiving stone. It pierces the air like a needle, and suddenly, Mairon can truly _see;_ see dust whirling in the air, see metal shine and colours deepen.

It feels as though someone had grabbed a chisel and hacked a splinter off Ormal and one off fair Illuin, then mingled them to obtain the purest light of transparency; a light that speaks with the wisdom of truth.

This Light is – of course – Power; perhaps greater than his own, but not quite unlike it.

_“Mairon!”_

The voice makes him think of crystals and the vast infinity of Ea, in times when light had still dwelt in it.

 _“Mairon! Brother! Where are you?”_ So the voice calls again, shaking the smithy to its foundations; and Mairon feels his powers dwindle. The iron grip of his will loosens for a heartbeat, and he stops telling himself that this hollow, moist cave is a smithy; that the focus of his attention is a smelter and his passion its heat; that _ambition,_ _imagination_ and _skill_ can be detached from the essence of one’s soul and hung on the walls like tools; tools that one could pick up, then discard at the most ephemeral twinge of will.

 _“Brother!”_ Eonwe calls again, and his voice is thunder and wind.

“Here, here.” Mairon scoffs. There is no chisel to put down and no table to put it down on. His arms hang useless, the vessel of his body a beacon of discomfort. “Congratulations… you just destroyed an entire _world_ I’ve imagined.”

Eonwe looks at him, and wonders. His Light is dimmer now, almost _bearable_.

“Does that truly matter to you?”

The question is _blunt_ – scandalously blunt in fact, bordering at the edge of insensitivity – but it is spoken gently, with the depth of love that comes from sharing and perhaps understanding.

Mairon stares. The cogwheels of his brain are broken, and his logic dances on eggshells around the mystery of kinship.

“…it was my creation.”

“You said nothing of _creation,”_ says Eonwë. “Only imagination.”

“Are they not the same? The steel I have sharpened is real.”

“Indeed. And why did you sharpen it?”

“Because – ” Mairon bites his tongue. “Because the Lamps are broken, and their light is dead, and the Black One roams free.”

Weary silence settles between them. Mairon rolls up his sleeves and cracks his knuckles, and Eonwë watches him closely, the way hunters do when they are trying to read from tracks.

 _“Brother,”_ says the herald slowly, as if it pained him to speak. “I do not think it wise to go after the Black One with steel and fire. What would you even do with those? He would crush you; and his victory would be all the greater.”

Mairon swallows his impatience. “True. Still, someone has to do _something.”_

“The only thing you did since the Fall of the Lamps was crawling under the earth to bathe in darkness even deeper. We have _searched_ for you, Mairon. I thought – I thought that perhaps He had taken you, or worse, that _you_ had gone after Him. Whyever would you shut the world out of your heart? Ormal and Illuin are no more, and we are all grieving; but Eä is still there, and the Powers are not idle. We should help. Come with me, the Lord Aulë misses you! As do we all. As do _I,_ if that matters.”

Mairon purses his lips, closes his fists and fights the waves of indignation that wash over him. Him, bathing in darkness? Him, shutting the world out? _Him_ – the only one who cared enough to – but no, _that_ is unthinkable.

“You do not know my heart, Herald of Manwë,” he says slowly, “nor should you care when it opens or closes. If Lord Aulë truly misses me, then at least he should consider finally _doing something!”_ Mairon throws his hands in the air. “I – you don’t know him the way I do. He _loves_ his creations, cherishes them and teaches us all to take good care of them. He forged the Lamps with his own hands, chiselled and detailed them to perfection, and now… now Melko has destroyed them, and the Lord sits there and does _nothing!_ It is unbearable! Unthinkable! If Melko so much as touched one of _my_ creations…”

Mairon runs out of breath and words; and Eonwë’s glance is gentle, if a bit strained.

 _“…yes?_ What would you do, then? What _could_ you do, then?”

“Well, quite possibly less than the Valar themselves! They outnumber Him – together, they are stronger than Him – I do not understand why are we still sitting here, feeding on the light of the Power we have left! They could have long destroyed Melko, casting him out into the Void where he belongs!”

Eonwë blinks, then settles down onto the stony earth beside him.

“Yes,” he says, “they could. I have been wondering as well… I gave this a lot of thought… yet none of my doubts or explanations matter now. The Powers do as they will; and we must follow, and have faith, and fight for what good is left in the world. That is the purpose of our existence.”

“Maybe,” says Mairon, “but I want to know why.”

“I will ask you again, _does it matter?”_

“It matters to me.” Mairon caresses his chin. “Do you think that the Powers know _why_ he did it? Melko.”

“Why he destroyed the Lamps?”

 _“All_ of it. Why did he become so vile and secretive, devoured by his own vices? Why does he hate Eä so much? Why does he look down on us?” Mairon blinked. “Why did he change the Song?”

“It is all said and done now, whatever the reason; and the way back for Melko, if there _is_ such a way, must be paved by grief and penitence.”

“The _reason_ matters in the same way _words_ matter in a story,” says Mairon, eyes alight with passion. “You could hate the story behind them, you could hate the one who tells them… but you would, without any doubt, be able to make sense of them. To understand them. That is all I want, brother – to _understand_ , so I may finally scream and grieve and swear vengeance, and let Time mend the rest. I do not tolerate a _riddle,_ Eonwë, _you_ of all people surely must know that. I must always have answers to my questions; that is how I have learned to tell precious metals from the rest, or not to speak to Lord Aulë when he locks the doors of his workshop. But who could tell me about Melko?”

“The Lady of the Stars once said…” Eonwë sighs. “See, you are not the only one with doubts. I have them, too, and Olórin… and Curumo. Strange how he never told you – he once asked the Powers why Melko was punished when he changed the Song.”

“No one but the Maker can know that.”

“Maybe. Yet Lady Varda said that the true reason Melko was punished was not that he had changed the Song itself, but the fact that he wanted to possess and control it. It is said that he was a great creator in his own time, the mightiest of the Valar; his eyes saw far and free, and the thought of following the Maker’s plans displeased him. He wanted to be Lord of all things; he wanted to rule his creations and exploit them, to be behind their every breath and every move. He wanted the tides in the seas to rise for him; he wanted mountain-ridges and rivers to run for him; he wanted all light to shine for him. He never loved his creations for what they were, only for the use he could have of them. And that, said the Lady Varda, is unforgivable; for the Powers are the guardians of Eä, not its slavers.”

“Melko still became a slaver in his own Eä,” Mairon muses. “And now he killed our Light. Do you think he is satisfied?”

“Evil is never satisfied, as I understand.” Eonwë bows his head. “Only rash, and bitter, and utterly wretched.”

“If that were true, there would be no Evil,” says Mairon softly. “Who would want to be wretched for all the Ages to come?”

Eonwë has no answer for him.

“…let us go now. I am ready to face what is left of the world.”


End file.
